Aria Dean argues the difficulty of black flânerie. But wandering may be utopian at levels beyond the utility. Its privilege may be, as des “gestes” artistiques, in the sphere of thought, language, and geography. A privilege that leans on a poetic, une poétique de la Relation : “l’imaginaire de mon lieu est relié à la réalité imaginaire des lieux du monde, et tout inversement.” (Édouard Glissant, Discours Antillais au Tout Monde)
Hello to the era of going to the store to buy more ice
because we are running out.
Hello to feelings that arrive unintroduced.
Hello to the nonfunctional sprig of parsley
and the game of finding meaning in coincidence.
Cassette County, David Berman
Lawns and fields and hills and wide old velvet
sleeves, green things. They stretch, fold, roll away,
unfurl and calm the eye. Look lush in paintings.
Battles are fought on greens. Or you could spread
a meal and sup. How secretly they lie, floors of
distant forests. Next comes the grave, in many a
poem about green. But this is not a poem. This is a
billboard for frozen green peas. Frozen green peas
are good for pain.
Short Talk on Pain, Anne Carson
This is my first memory: A big room with heavy wooden tables that sat on a creaky wood floor A line of green shades—bankers’ lights—down the center Heavy oak chairs that were too low or maybe I was simply too short For me to sit in and read So my first book was always big In the foyer up four steps a semi-circle desk presided To the left side the card catalogue On the right newspapers draped over what looked like a quilt rack Magazines face out from the wall The welcoming smile of my librarian The anticipation in my heart All those books—another world—just waiting At my fingertips.
My First Memory (of Librarians), Nikki Giovanni
Romare Bearden, Untitled, 1980s(?). DC Moore Gallery.
Thomas Allen, Ronchini.
Teresa Gierzynska, Gunia Nowik Gallery.
unsignificantly
off the coast
there was
a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, William Carlos Williams
We wear the mask that grins and lies,
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—
This debt we pay to human guile;
With torn and bleeding hearts we smile
And mouth with myriad subtleties,
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
We smile, but oh great Christ, our cries
To thee from tortured souls arise.
We sing, but oh the clay is vile
Beneath our feet, and long the mile,
But let the world dream otherwise,
We wear the mask!
